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Thursday, August 14, 2014

Since Morgan James dragged me crying and shouting GENO NO
kicking and screaming into the world of being a hockey fan, I have learned a
lot. I had to, once Morgan we decided to write Winging It.Professional
hockey is a strange, terrible world with its own equally strange and terrible
vocabulary and practices.

In short, it’s fun as hell to set a book in, but it’s easy
to get lost in the jargon if you don’t know what you’re getting into.

Which is why Winging
It has a full glossary as well as three pages of explanations of all the
hockey fan inside jokes. (Sorry, Liz.) But for those of you who’re curious as
to how hockey sucked me in so fast, here’s a taste.

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

So as you may have heard, Morgan James and I got a contract from Dreamspinner Press for our hockey romance Winging It. Since I had to fill in a lengthy form and work out a rough blurb anyway, I thought I'd share.

Gabe Martin’s life plan
goes something like this: get into the NHL; win the Stanley Cup. Nowhere is there
room for being the first out-and-proud hockey player or, worse, getting
involved with one of his teammates. But this year things change.

Dante Baltierra is Gabe’s
polar opposite: careless, reckless… shameless. But his dedication to the sport
matches Gabe’s fine, and Gabe can overlook a lot of young-and-stupid in the
name of great hockey. Plus, Dante has a superlative ass in a sport filled with superlative
asses.

Before he can figure out how to deal, Gabe gets thrown out of his
comfortable closet into a brand-new world.
Amid
the emotional turmoil of invasive questions, nasty speculation, and on- and off-ice
homophobia, Gabe’s game suffers.

Surprisingly, it’s Dante who
drags him out of it—and then, after an intense game, he drags him into
something else. Nothing good can come of secretly sleeping with a teammate,
especially one Gabe already has feelings for. But with their captain out with
an injury, a rookie in perpetual need of a hug, and the race to make the
playoffs for the first time since 1995, Gabe has a lot on his plate. He can’t
be blamed for forgetting nothing stays secret forever.

Tuesday, July 1, 2014

Who doesn't love a good party? Nobody Quebec City Nordiques forward Gabe Martin knows. But no one parties like his potential new linemate Dante Baltierra, aka Baller.

Nobody has an ass like him either.

When Gabe strolled
in, he found about half the guys had taken over the restaurant. Again, not
surprising. They were sprawled over a few of the larger tables, laughing over
beers, and Gabe smiled. These were his people.

“Banksy!” Baller
shouted and waved Gabe over.

Gabe rolled his eyes
but moved toward the empty seat at Baller’s table.

Baller was an idiot.
The self-appointed life of the party, he was a stereotypical American abroad:
loud and exuberant. But he was also a driven player and an excellent left-winger.
He’d been the Dekes’ first-round draft pick last year, and sports writers had
buzzed about his potential until he’d taken a hit to the head and gotten
knocked out for the second half of the season. Now that he was back, Gabe
looked forward to seeing what kind of player he matured into.

“Banksy! Beer!”
Baller pushed a pint glass into Gabe’s hand.

Gabe was interested
to see if he’d ever mature off the ice too. Probably not any time soon.

One more excerpt from Hard Feelings. So how does an introvert like Rylan end up in a casual frenemies-with-benefits arrangement with a coworker? Well, the conversation goes something like this....

Rylan shut
the door behind him, thunked his empty water bottle on the counter, and reached
into the cupboard for a glass. He was still thirsty. “You want some?”

“What? Oh,
water. Sure,” Miller said. “Thanks.”

Rylan poured
two glasses from the pitcher in the fridge. “So. You wanted to talk.” A better host
might have asked if Miller wanted to sit down, but Rylan didn’t want them to get
comfortable. The sooner Miller left, the sooner Rylan would feel at ease.

Miller took
a sip of his water and put it on the counter. “Yeah, I did. I do. I… fuck.”

“That’s how
this whole thing started in the first place,” Rylan muttered under his breath, but
Miller must have heard him, because he snorted.

At Brain Freeze,
Miller deliberated over the nine flavors on offer before deciding on pumpkin pie.
Rylan, Gina, and Holly ordered too, and then they left Brain Freeze to settle at
a picnic table in the park next door.

“You know,
you can tell a lot about a person based on their ice-cream choices,” Miller observed
as he stared into the distance.

Rylan looked
at his plain vanilla cone and scowled when Gina burst into laughter. “Shut up,”
Rylan grumped, not sure if he felt more betrayed by her or Miller. “You got licorice,” he pointed out in disgust, looking
over at Gina’s paper cup.

“Wait! Hold
the elevator!” A long tanned arm shot out and prevented the doors from closing.
Then the person attached to it followed, still wet from his spiky brown hair to
the red sandals that matched his board shorts.

Yet more proof
God hated Rylan Williams: Red Shorts, the surfer whose body he’d been perving on
for the past hour, was none other than the kid who'd fallen asleep in his lecture. He barely looked old enough
to rent a hotel room, never mind attend a graphic design conference, but he had
a conference badge clipped to his shorts: Miller J. A few of the letters had blurred
where water had dripped on them. At least he hadn’t worn it in the ocean.

To make matters
worse, his face matched his body: hot brown eyes framed with thick lashes, pert
nose, and that wide mouth that seemed inclined to smirk. He even had the perfect
amount of chest hair.

Those of you who've been following my Twitter and/or Facebook know Morgan James and I
have been writing a romance about hockey players. Apparently I care
about hockey now. It's a whole thing.

Anyway, the book's done,
and sadly so is the season, and now there's just the NHL awards (I'm
absolutely pulling for the hat trick) and the draft and then nothing
until October. Unless you're a Blackhawks fan, I guess; you guys get the
convention. Lucky.

Long story short, I said something silly to Morgan and Trish about how we could title the story Lord Stanley's Lovers and everyone would be really confused when it wasn't a regency menage, and somehow that led to Shakespeare (I know, wrong era).

SKATER BOY
What's a goaltender? It is nor puck nor stick,
Nor glove nor skate, nor any other part
belonging to a player. Play some other role.
What's in a position? A right winger
In any other slot could score as much
(Unless his name is Patrick Kane, I guess).
So Goalie-o would, were he not Goalie-o called,
Admit that heavy puck which I one-time
Into the net. Goalie-o, doff thy cage
And for thy cage, which is no part of thee,
Let me score!

I
don't know, guys, it's late and I miss hockey. For those of you not in
the know, Goalie-o tweets because all the best goalies have Twitter.